“You will always obey my orders, yes?”
“Yes, my lord,” they said in unison. Both of them had the same dazed look as my bath attendant; I wondered if they understood anything of their situation.
“You will never refuse a command?”
“No, my lord.”
“Let’s test that obedience a little, shall we? Conn, have you family at home, back in that realm you came from?”
Conn, a tall, red-haired man, looked confused.
“Speak up! We don’t have all day. Have you a wife back home? Children running about the house? A fine son maybe? A sweet little daughter? Don’t keep me waiting.”
“I—I don’t remember, my lord.”
“And you, Fergus? What dear ones did you leave behind when you wandered into a mushroom circle and out of your own realm into mine? An aged parent needing his son’s support? A comely young wife your neighbor already had his eye on? Don’t be shy.”
“Nobody, my lord.” Stocky, broad-shouldered Fergus stared straight ahead, face wooden.
“Is that so? Turn around, lads.”
They turned to face the fire, and there, on the very end of the tongue of stone, was a little girl of perhaps five. She was dressed in a homespun gown and neat linen cap, and in her arms she clutched a grubby cloth doll. Her feet were a handspan from the drop; hungry flames reached up toward them. She stood frozen, her eyes wide with terror.
Outrage filled me. Forget Caisin, forget the geis; I simply could not let this happen. I was three strides down toward the basin when a hand came over my mouth, arresting both speech and movement.
“No, Maeve!” Luachan spoke in a fierce whisper.
For a moment I fought him; then I made myself be still and he took his hand away. “Sorry,” I muttered, knowing I had been foolish. I could not help that child or stop what evil plan Mac Dara had in mind. I had almost jeopardized our whole mission.
“Me, too,” Luachan said as we both stepped back. “I am more sorry than I can possibly tell you.”
“Fergus!” Mac Dara rapped out as the child teetered above the flames. Not a single person moved to help her. “Do you know this little girl?”
“No, my lord.” The response was delivered in the same flat tone as his earlier speech.
“And you, Conn?”
An infinitesimal pause; a shadow of doubt. Then, “No, my lord.”
“So, if I ordered you to push her into the fire you would do so without hesitation?”
“Yes, my lord.”
A shiver of shocked delight ran through the crowd; they were hungry for spectacle.
“What if I told you this was your daughter, Conn? Your only daughter? She’s grown since you left, hasn’t she? How long is it, two years you’ve been with us now?”
The hesitation again, as if awareness were not entirely lost from the fellow’s mind, even after so long. “I don’t recall, my lord.”
“Then let me remove the charm from your thoughts, my friend, so you will remember more clearly.” A pass of the hands, deft and graceful.
Conn took a staggering step; cast a panicky glance around the clearing, taking in the crowd of beautiful folk, the tall trees, the fire, the child…
“Saorla!” he shouted, and in the same moment she cried out, “Papa!” Conn took two strides toward the girl. Mac Dara waved a casual hand and the man froze in place, one foot off the ground, arms reaching out vainly to snatch his child from harm.
“Not so fast,” said Mac Dara. “Fergus, walk forward and push the child into the fire.”
Fergus walked forward.
“No!” screamed Conn, still held immobile. “Fergus! No!”
Mac Dara lifted his hand and halfway along the tongue of stone Fergus, too, froze in place. The child was weeping, shivering, her eyes fixed on her father. Her feet were on the very edge; she was too terrified to step away and save herself. From the hem of her gown, a thread of smoke arose.
“Well, now,” said Mac Dara. “Let us see what Conn is prepared to do in order to save his child. What if I told you, Conn, that you must kill your friend here before your daughter can be brought to safety?”
“You godforsaken apology for a man!” Conn spat. “How dare you play these evil games? How dare you put a child’s life in the balance?”
Mac Dara folded his arms. He tapped his foot. “You didn’t answer the question,” he said. “So let’s raise the stakes a little higher.” There was an implement in his hand now; it resembled a shard of bone. “You shrink from harming your friend, though he would have killed your child without hesitation. What’s to stop me from letting him go right ahead and do so? Only my kind heart, Conn, only that. Take this weapon. You’ll find you can move your fingers.” He came forward and put the bone knife into Conn’s hand. “When I remove the immobility charm, you’ll have a three-way choice. Kill Fergus and you can pull her to safety. Plunge the knife in your own heart and I’ll see to it that she is spared. Do neither and she falls. Ready, now?”
The crowd gave a great gasp. Luachan muttered an oath. My stomach protested; bile rose to my mouth. Inside me someone was babbling, This isn’t real; it can’t be. I want to go home.
“He’s bluffing,” Finbar said, his voice not quite steady. “He wouldn’t break the rules. It must be an illusion.”
How close were we to two hundred? I could not see the green-cloaked personage with his pipe, but others seemed to be counting now, all around the circle.
“One hundred and seventy-three,” Mac Dara said. “One hundred and seventy-four. On one hundred and eighty I will release you both from the charm.”
“Papa!” screamed the child as the hem of her gown caught fire. “Help!”
I could not look. I screwed my eyes shut and prayed. A sequence of sounds followed, a roar of fury, someone shouting, No!, a great cheer from the crowd as if they were mightily entertained by what was unfolding. When I dared look again, Fergus lay flat on the tongue of stone. Blood pooled around his still form. Conn was at the very end, arms outstretched toward the fire. Of the girl, there was no sign at all.
A moment’s terrible silence. Conn turned. “Where is she?” His face was ashen. “Where’s my daughter?” He took a few staggering steps toward Mac Dara. “You promised me! You gave your word! You said she would be safe!”
“Aolu!” called the Lord of the Oak, ignoring him completely. One of the fey men came forward. It was the golden-haired fellow who had won the position of Master of Portals.
“This man is no longer required in my household,” Mac Dara said crisply. “Take him back where he came from.”
“My daughter—” gasped Conn.
“Go home, fool. Your daughter died last winter, of an ague. Your wife has a new man and a fine baby boy. The lives of human folk are short, their memories shorter. Take him away.”
Conn gave a roar of fury and hurled himself forward, though the bone weapon still lay on the stones, red with his friend’s lifeblood. Aolu stepped out and arrested his wild progress, restraining him as easily as he might a wayward terrier.
“Go on, then,” said Mac Dara, not sparing a glance, and Conn, fighting, weeping, raging, was led away. “Remove the debris, will you? We must leave things tidy for my challenger.”
The very large man, Mochta, came forward, scooped up the limp and bloodied form of Fergus and tossed him into the fire. The flames flared up to receive the body; it would soon be consumed. Mac Dara pointed a finger toward the tongue of stone and the pool of blood lifted in a red mist, then dissipated. The voice of the crowd rose to a shout: “One hundred and ninety-nine, two hundred!”
The pipe sounded, its delicate timbre incongruous in this place of cruelty. Mac Dara’s demonstration of magic was over.
I bent double, retching up a watery bile. My heart felt like a trapped creature dashing itself against the walls of its cage. My skin crawled. “He broke the rules,” I whispered, wondering if Caisin’s plot was over before it had begun.
Down by the basin, someone else had the same id
ea.
“My lord,” said Breasal, “the rule on unreasonable injury—”
“The child was not harmed,” Mac Dara said. “There was no child. And these men were merely the material of the spell. The references to injury surely do not apply to humankind.” His tone suggested the very idea was ludicrous.
“The rules make no distinction between races.” Breasal was dogged; in view of what we had just witnessed, either he was extremely brave or exceptionally foolish. “The loss of a life, no matter whose, goes beyond reasonable injury. Nobody would dispute that, my lord.”
Fraochan cleared his throat. “Does Lady Caisin wish to lodge a complaint? Is this a formal request that Lord Mac Dara’s display be ruled invalid? Without a precedent, it could take some time to determine—”
“Let’s ask her, shall we?” Mac Dara turned a genial smile in Caisin’s direction. She was looking remarkably calm. I would have thought a person of her mettle would be disturbed by the foul display we had just witnessed, even allowing for the differences between her kind and mine.
“What would happen if it were declared invalid, Fraochan?” she asked.
“Lord Mac Dara would be required to perform another demonstration of his magical craft, my lady.”
Caisin rolled her eyes. “Have mercy! In that case, I will raise no objection to his shameless flouting of the rules. May I proceed to my own display now?”
“Oh, please do,” drawled Mac Dara, speaking over his councilor. “This must be the most drawn-out conclave in history.”
“It’s time.” Dioman was beside us, come from nowhere.
“What about Swift?” I asked.
“He’s over there,” said Luachan, pointing. “On the far side. See?”
It was so. Swift was there, looking reasonably calm, with his leading rein held by the man who had taken him away, and a small crowd of Caisin’s folk close by. Now I could see what they had been setting up earlier under cover of the dispute over the rules. Two wooden poles stood on one side of the basin, one pole on the other side. Those mallets I had seen earlier must have been used to hammer them securely between the rocks. Now Caisin’s people were doing something with the ropes, and…Surely they didn’t think they could tie Swift on one side while I stood on the other, keeping him under control with the flaming bowl between us?
“That won’t work,” I said, appalled. “It’s too far. I won’t be able to do it! And he’ll be too close to the fire. He’ll panic. He’ll hurt himself!”
Luachan said nothing. His face was chalk white, his jaw set. He looked the way I felt: as if we were heading out to certain death.
“This is how it’s supposed to be.” Finbar spoke with chilling certainty.
“You must come now,” said Dioman.
I couldn’t make myself step forward. My body was full of my beating heart.
“I’ll look after you, Maeve,” said Finbar, and moved down toward the basin. His back was straight, his head held high. In his encircling arms rode the little dog.
Muttering a prayer to the gods I did not believe in, I followed.
Down among the crowd of tall folk, I couldn’t see far ahead. Dioman had left us, heading for the far side of the basin. I could hear Swift whinnying, and I could hear the whispers, too. On one side, “Look at her hands! How unsightly!” And on the other side, “Isn’t that child Lord Sean’s son? Look, Coblaith, he has your dog!” And someone else put in, “If you could call it a dog.”
Finbar led Luachan and me to the place where two poles stood side by side, three arms’ lengths back from the edge of the basin; he seemed sure that was where we should be. A pair of fey men clad in Caisin’s colors stood there. I glanced across to see Dioman fastening Swift’s leading rope around the single pole on the opposite side. Other folk in blue and silver were there, and before I had time to put together the pieces of what I saw, one of them tossed the end of a long rope from that side to this, where it was deftly caught. Now the rope spanned the breadth of the basin, a distance of at least ten strides. What in the name of the gods were they doing? Swift was restless now, turning his head, lifting his feet, twitching his tail. Dioman gestured, making the other folk step back to give him room. A second long rope followed the first.
Finbar advanced to stand beside the two poles, and now here was Caisin, lips curved in a smile, eyes bright as stars.
“We’re ready,” my brother said.
“My lady,” I blurted out, “I can’t do this at such a distance—Swift is already upset—what are you—”
“You will do it, Maeve.” Her tone was calm. “You must. Finbar, give me the dog.”
He stared at her, his arms tightening around the little bundle in his cloak.
“Take the dog,” Caisin said, glancing at her men. “There is no time to waste.”
They wrenched the creature from Finbar’s arms; he stood silent with tears streaming down his cheeks.
Fury gripped me. “What are you—” I began, but the words dried up in my mouth. Caisin had moved away, and in her place was Luachan, a knife of pale bone in his hand, its point aimed straight at my chest. His face was as white as his weapon. I stared, uncomprehending.
“Move over to the pole,” he said, using the knife to gesture. “Do it, Maeve—stop wasting time. And keep quiet.”
“But—”
“Move!”
I obeyed, my heart hammering. This made no sense. Luachan, a druid, Finbar’s tutor and protector. Luachan, our friend. Was he under some vile enchantment? I am more sorry than I can possibly tell you. The words took on a sinister significance. No time to consider, for now—gods, so quick!—Caisin’s men were fastening one of the long ropes around my waist and one around Finbar’s. I felt the pull straightaway and struggled to hold my feet.
“Hold on to the pole,” Luachan said.
Mute with horror, I did my best to obey, crossing my arms around it. What was this? The geis did not demand any of this rigmarole; all it said was held with hands that cannot hold. Do it this way and the plan must end in complete failure.
I found my voice when I looked across the circle and saw two men tying the other ends of the ropes to Swift’s halter. “No!” I croaked in utter disbelief. “Oh, no! We won’t last to a count of five, let alone two hundred. Luachan, why?” If it weren’t for Swift’s leading rope, still fastened to the pole over there, we’d already be in the fire. Had Mac Dara somehow ensorcelled Luachan, that he would suddenly turn against us? “Untie the rope! Set Finbar free at least!”
No response. Signals were exchanged across the basin to indicate all was in place. Thus far, the press of folk had shielded Finbar and me from Mac Dara’s view, though he must surely have seen the flurry of preparation. I looked for Caisin and found her not far away with her sister beside her. Perhaps there was still time to stop this.
“My lady!” I called, loud enough for those nearby to hear me, despite the buzz of excited voices. “My brother is only seven years old, our father’s only son. If you need me for your display, I’m ready to do it, but please tell these men to let Finbar go! There’s no need for this!” And you know it, I thought, wondering if I had imagined the compassion in her eyes and in her voice earlier. The geis specified only that Finbar watch, not that he be placed in mortal danger. This, I could not say; not with Mac Dara so close.
Caisin smiled. Oh, her look was sweet indeed, and her smile was sunlight and flowers. “You can do this, Maeve,” she said. “This is destiny; it is meant to be.” She scrutinized me a moment longer, then said, “Moderate your rage, my dear. It won’t help you.”
Anger boiled in me, along with the knowledge that I might possibly have managed to hold Swift still, even at such a distance, had it not been for the fact that my whole body was quivering with fury and terror. It was too late to stop this. It was too late to do anything.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Finbar indistinctly. “This is what’s supposed to happen.”
“You could have warned me,” I muttered as Caisin w
alked over to stand at the tongue of stone, a regal figure in her sky-blue gown, with her hair shimmering across her shoulders and a perfect pearl in each ear.
“You might not have done it if I’d told you,” he said simply.
Gods! Could he have known all along that Luachan was…what? An enemy? A spy? What child could keep something like that to himself? What seven-year-old could see a violent death coming and walk calmly to meet it?
The crowd hushed. All eyes were on Caisin Silverhair. Mac Dara’s throne was hidden from me by a group of Caisin’s people standing on the basin’s rim.
“We’re ready,” said Caisin. “I ask for total silence; this demonstration requires it.”
I looked across the basin toward Swift. I had a choice: submit to the sheer terror that was knotting my insides and turning my mind blank, or give this the best effort I could. Perish as a helpless child or as a true daughter of Sevenwaters. No choice, when it came to it. I had to believe I could do this. And that meant getting Swift under my control right now.
“Swift, my lovely boy.” I made my voice loud enough to carry across the basin, gentle enough to reassure him. “Fresh water; green fields; calm hands and quiet.”
As I spoke, the pipe sounded its single note, high and sweet. The count had begun.
There was no looking at Finbar; no looking over toward Mac Dara; no way to know if Luachan had his knife poised at my back. No looking anywhere but at Swift, who stood trembling and wide-eyed across the fiery cauldron. I pressed my body against the pole, hoping I could keep my position for long enough. Finbar could use his hands for a better grip, at least. But his strength would ebb more quickly. Oh gods, what had I done?
“Good boy, Swift. Calm boy. Quiet now…peaceful thoughts…slow, slow…my boy, my lovely boy…”
Swift was listening; I saw it in his stance. He had heard the familiar voice, the voice that always calmed and steadied him. The voice of a trusted friend. He stood still, looking across the fiery pit, and I worked on my breathing. “Calm boy. Lovely boy. Green fields. Cool water…” Perhaps I could do it; perhaps I really could. Provided I could keep him still, provided he did not pull against the leading rope and dislodge the pole where it was tied, we might have a chance of keeping hold of our own anchors for long enough. “Hold on tight, Finbar,” I muttered, then returned to my litany. “Kind hands and quiet…”
Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters Page 39
